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stood for “National Clandestine Service,” which engaged in a murky mission called “human intelligence.” Especially surreal was the description, “We are accountable to the U.S. president, Congress, and the American taxpayer.”
    Yeah, sure you are. Except those three are on different sides in your little ideological war. And to think I helped fund your cheesy little website.
    Hell, it’s getting so that cheating on taxes is the last pure act of patriotism.
    But what would the CIA have to do with Seethe and Halcyon? The drugs were all stamped out. Mark and Alexis had made sure of that, despite Burchfield’s blubbering about “government property.” And Roland had personally put a bullet in Briggs’s hard drive, as well as his chest.
    A browsing of the CIA site revealed no e-mail addresses. Any public contact had to issue through Cold War means like postal mail and telephone, aside from a handy form page where freedom-loving citizens could rat on their suspicious neighbors. Or just the neighbors they didn’t like.
    “What are you looking at?”
    It was Wendy. He’d been so engrossed that he hadn’t heard her come out on the porch. She stood behind him, and now he could smell her—paint, chamomile, and faint, sexy sweat.
    Roland caught himself before he snapped the laptop closed. “Uh, researching for a client. She’s got a thriller thing going on, and I wanted to make sure this logo was right for her book cover.”
    “Ro, your hand is shaking.”
    He forced a chuckle. “Yeah. Blood sugar must be low. How about them cucumbers?”
    He logged out of the program and shut down as Wendy nuzzled the back of his neck. She reached one arm around and slid it between his legs. “There’s the cool kind of cucumber, and then there’s the other kind.”
    He stood abruptly, and the rocker knocked back against Wendy.
    “Ow,” she said. “Boy, you sure know how to respond to fore-play.”
    “Sorry, sweetie,” he said, squeezing the folded laptop as if it were a box of venomous snakes. “I’m a little wired right now.”
    She knew that drill. His alcoholism had led to a painful separation, and if not for the divine intervention of the insane Dr. Briggs, they would likely still be apart. Of all the consequences stemming from the Monkey House, their reunion was the only positive outcome that Roland could see.
    “Too much peace and serenity,” she said, glancing at her current work in progress sitting on the easel. “It can drive anybody nutty.”
    “Let’s eat,” he said, taking her hand and giving her an apologetic kiss on the cheek. Before entering the cabin, he studied the woods.
    Every four hours. We played that game already.
    Now what?

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Dominic Scagnelli had been watching her for days, but his favorite part was at sundown.
    That was when Anita Molkesky took her long, luxuriant bubble baths, surrounded by candles. Since she’d given up porn stardom masquerading as “Anita Mann,” her cash flow had been a little tight, as evidenced by the financial records he’d cracked. She’d downgraded her cable package, pushed her two credit cards to the max, and traded her Corvette for a Jetta. She was overpaying for the little cottage, $1,200 a month, but it was located on the edge of a university town where the entire market was inflated.
    Despite the hardships, Anita allowed herself two indulgences: an evening soak, and multiple classes of barbiturates, painkillers, and the occasional bottle of wine that corralled the dulling effects of the other drugs.
    As Scagnelli looked through his binoculars, he wondered how much his boss was keeping from him. After stints in two national security agencies before becoming a “consultant,” he’d learned that you could count on getting half the truth. The trouble was they gave you the half that didn’t matter and withheld the half that would have helped you do your job.
    And that’s what it was all about. Doing your job.
    Some of his fellow agents had